


Love Kills

by Savva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, F/M, HP Mental Health Fest, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savva/pseuds/Savva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part not with your loved ones. A tale of love over a great distance, and how it affects the two parties involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Kills

**Author's Note:**

> **Title** Love Kills  
>  **Prompt:** #4. Lovesickness. A tale of love over a great distance and how it (psychologically) affects the two parties involved.  
>  **Prompt submitted by:**   
> **Pairing(s)/Character(s):** Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy  
>  **Word Count:** ~ 6200  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Warnings:** AU, explicit sexual situations, angst, profanity.  
>  **Summary:** Part not with your loved ones. A tale of love over a great distance, and how it affects the two parties involved.  
>  **Author's notes:** Enormous thanks to my wonderful betas **krazyredhead0317** and **AmyLouise**.

  
**Love Kills***  
(A Year and A Day)

The clock tower struck the hour, interrupting his methodical punching. He swung his fist one last time and drew a calming breath. The stench of blood and sweat hit his nostrils, and he grimaced in distaste. Fear stank.

Standing up, Draco straightened his grey suit and procured a white handkerchief. Fastidiously wiping his knuckles, he contemplated the battered, unmoving body on the floor. 

"Sorry, uncle," he offered unapologetically as his cold eyes lingered on the bloodied face of his infamous relative for a few moments more. Perhaps he had overdone it just a notch. He glanced around and chuckled darkly, taking in the baroque interior. Of course, even in hiding, Rabastan Lestrange had succeeded in surrounding himself with luxury. Noticing that he had managed to ruin the vintage tapestry on the wall – one of the spells had probably grazed the delicate material – Draco stepped around the unconscious man on the floor. Coming closer, he traced the old needlework with a fingertip and shook his head. It would be impossible to restore – the tapestry was simply too old to withstand the reconstructive spell. 

“Pity,” Draco muttered with a sigh. “Such a waste.” 

He regretted nothing, though – the bastard on the floor deserved every spell and every punch. It had taken Draco a year to find and gain access to him. The whole fucking year had been spent in deep undercover, pretending to be at ease among a bunch of misguided mongrels who called themselves “Dark Lord’s Heirs”. The yearlong balancing act had made him feel like a bloody equilibrist at times. He’d hated it, and not only because it reminded him of the darkest moments of his youth. Frankly, he was all right with that part, even though it was unpleasant. He was an Auror, and some level of dreadfulness was to be expected. 

There was a greater reason for his acute animosity. It so happened that right before that assignment, he had convinced Granger to move in with him, and they just had settled into a routine. It hadn’t been easy to bring their relationship to that point – they had had a rough start – and he hated leaving her alone for so long. 

Loathed. It. 

For once he had done something right, and he finally, _finally_ felt content. All he wanted was to be with her. Love her. For Merlin’s sake, he could have married her by the end of this year! If he had been around, that is. Instead, he had been forced to spend three hundred and sixty-five agonizingly long days without her. He had to live, breathe, go to sleep, and wake up every morning _without her_. It had been torture. He had mourned every hour, every minute, every second that had been stolen from them by that demented, delusional fuck. 

Disgust engulfed him as he looked again at his uncle. The sly bastard had not only managed to disappear after the war, he had also built himself a group of fanatical followers. No one knew where he had found the idiots, but they had been a pain in the arse of the Ministry for quite a while. Once it had become apparent that the bastards planned to assassinate the Minister, Draco, as the only Auror who sported the Dark Mark, had been planted inside one of their operational cells. From there, he slowly worked his way up. 

This morning, his hard work had come to fruition, and he had finally got an opportunity to meet the mastermind behind that pack of mongrels. It had been easy enough to fool and neutralize the guards, and when Draco had dropped his Glamour Charm, the look on his uncle's face had been priceless. The surprise had worked to Draco’s advantage, and the operation was over in minutes. It was no wonder that Auror Malfoy felt quite proud of himself. 

Having wiped his hands, he threw the handkerchief in Lestrange’s face, drew his wand, and sent his smoky silver fox Patronus to notify the local Magical Law Enforcements. His job here was done. Belgrade’s Special Unit knew what to do.

Needing to regroup and leave behind the fanatic's mask he had worn for a year, Draco walked to a window. Belgrade was slowly waking up to a sunny Saturday morning. As he watched the Muggles who were already running errands, he noticed a young woman walking down the street. The way her chestnut curls bounced with every step, reminded him of different curls … of a different woman, and his heart skipped a beat. He reached for the necklace that coiled hidden around his neck. A silver locket with an engraved lioness on it bounced against his chest, tinkling softly as if welcoming its owner. Lovingly caressing the locket, he closed his eyes, muttered, “Time to go home,” and popped it open with a soft metallic click. 

A moment later, he was swirling towards home, towards _her_. The wild spinning and twirling of the Portkey made his stomach churn and muddled all his thoughts. Except one. 

_Never again. I will never leave her again._

* * *

He landed in their cosy, sunlit foyer and, spurred by anticipation, rushed to the living room, not watching where he was going. Of course, in his rush, he managed to trip over the hearth and tumble on a rug with a loud thud. 

“Shite,” he cursed. _So much for quietly sneaking in_ , he thought, and scrambled to his feet. For months, he had had this childish fantasy of creeping quietly behind her and announcing his return by covering her eyes and making her guess who. Certain that his noisy entrance had spoiled the surprise and expecting her to come running any minute, he huffed and moved towards their bedroom. A second later, however, he froze mid-step and narrowed his eyes. Something was off. A distinct ripple in the air indicated that he had breached some kind of wards, and they certainly weren’t Hermione’s. He knew her magical signature as well as his own. 

His wand at the ready, Draco squinted around and listened. The silence that surrounded him made his skin crawl. “Granger,” he called softly, even though he had a feeling that she wasn’t there. Scanning the room, he noticed the dead plants on the windowsills. Unable to keep calm any longer, he darted to their bedroom. It was empty. The bed was made, but not the way Hermione usually made it, and he cringed at the thought of someone else touching their bed. The usual sweet aroma of jasmine still lingered in the air, though it was much fainter than he remembered. Hungrily, he inhaled the familiar scent, and that was when it hit him – something had happened. Something terrible had happened to her while he was away.

His chest began to ache as panic set in. Trying and failing to draw a proper breath, he whispered, “Hermione,” and sunk down onto their bed. It took him a moment to recuperate and gather his scattered thoughts. A few heartbeats later, he sprang to his feet and hastened toward the Floo. He needed to find Potter. Now. 

There still wasn’t any love lost between him and the Head Auror. That being said, they had learned to keep their interactions balanced. Plus, they now had Granger in common, and that was bigger than any old grudge.

As Draco stepped into the living room, the Floo suddenly lit up, and a dishevelled Potter was spat into the centre of the room. _So those were Potter’s wards_ , he thought, eyeing the Head Auror with suspicion. “Potter,” he called, and leaned against the doorframe. The worried expression on Potter’s face warned him that he would probably need support. 

Potter turned to the sound of his voice, fixed his glasses, and focused his eyes on him. “Welcome back. I heard about Belgrade. Well done,” he said and gave him a tight smile, which didn’t reach his eyes. That small, forced smile looked unnatural on his haggard face, making Draco uneasy.

“Cut it, Potter,” Draco snapped warningly. He wasn’t in the mood for fake niceties. “What’s with the wards?” 

Shifting from one foot to another, Potter drew a heavy breath and slowly ran a hand through his hair. Then … he pinched his nose and exhaled. Losing his patience, Draco took two long strides and, towering over the dark-haired wizard, hissed, “Talk.”

“It’s …” Potter faltered and pinched the bridge of his nose again. “It’s Hermione.”

Feeling the earth slowly moving from under his feet, Draco stumbled back and collapsed on a chair. “What? Where is she?” 

“St. Mungo’s.”

“What happened?” he rasped, his voice hoarse from a sudden lack of air.

Potter moved his lips, unable to force the words out, and Draco was almost ready to strangle him when at last, Potter cleared his throat and said, “They can’t wake her up.” 

“What do you mean, _can’t wake her up_? What kind of malady is that? A spell?”

“They don’t know exactly. I found her unconscious in bed when she hadn’t shown up for dinner at Grimmauld,” Potter explained. “Anthony – her Healer – said that something is keeping her from waking up. He ran every diagnostic spell possible and didn’t find a cause. He said it could be anything.” He paused and chewed on his bottom lip. “I told him that she could have been stressed with your being away for so long. He thinks that it may be a magical melancholy, something akin to a Muggle depression.”

“Melancholy?” Draco repeated quietly and frowned.

“Yes, it’s a tough thing to treat, apparently. I thought she was a little depressed lately. I just didn’t think-"

Suddenly seeing red, Draco sprang to his feet and swooped in on the wizard. Once again towering over him with clenched fists, he roared, “MELANCHOLY! You prick! You were supposed to look after her. You swore – you gave your word to me. She's your best friend, for Merlin’s sake!” 

“I know that!” Potter spat back at him, his nostrils flaring and eyes ablaze. “I tried. She didn't say a word. She refused to talk about it, and you know Hermione – she can be stubborn. I checked on her every single day. We talked, and she seemed all right. At least, she _looked_ all right. And then, one day … it happened.” He began to pace. “It was you she wanted. It was you she needed. I had no clue that something like that could happen. I couldn’t …” He shook his head in defeat. “… I couldn’t help her. I tried.”

For a while, Draco silently watched him pace as he tried to grasp Potter’s words. “Perhaps you should have tried harder,” he muttered. His gaze fell on a half-dead ficus tree, and he felt a tendril of suspicion uncurling deep in his stomach. He turned back to Potter and asked, “How long has she been in St. Mungo’s?”

Potter halted and admitted, “Three weeks.” 

The wariness in his green eyes indicated that he knew what was coming, and frankly, Draco did contemplate hexing or smothering him. It took all his self-control not to lunge at him. “Why. Wasn’t. I. Informed?” He pushed through gritted teeth, staring the dark-haired wizard down. Merlin, he was ready to kill him.

“I wanted to,” Potter said quietly. “I couldn’t do anything.”

“Bollocks! You're the Head Auror, for fuck’s sake. And you expect me to believe you? You just wanted the job done. So please, stop pretending that you give a damn.”

“I do! I tried. You and Hermione are not married. There weren’t any grounds for me to terminate the operation.” Potter leaned against the granite mantel and added wearily, “I don’t need to prove anything to anybody, let alone you. You know I care. You know that if it hadn't been for the safety of the Minister, I would have ended the operation in a heartbeat. In this particular case, I couldn’t. It wasn’t my decision. My hands were tied, do you understand?” 

“Perfectly,” Draco replied, his tone icy. Glaring at Potter's pale face, he couldn’t find any compassion in his heart. There was too much rage in him. “You will receive my letter of resignation on Monday morning,” he continued after a pause. “Oh, and give my regards to Shacklebolt. He can govern safely… at least for now.” With that, he shoved Potter out of the way and stepped into the Floo. 

“St. Mungo’s,” he shouted, and let the flames engulf him.

* * *

Anthony Goldstein was well known among the Aurors – he had treated many of them, including Draco. Hence, it took only a few minutes to find him. The door to his office was open, and Draco could see Anthony scribbling something in one of the many charts that covered the wooden surface of his desk. 

Draco knocked and entered, not waiting for an invitation. Despite that blatant act of trespass, Anthony seemed happy to see him. “Draco, thank Merlin you're back,” he exclaimed, springing up and rushing toward him. Enthusiastically shaking Draco’s hand, he went on, “How did your big assignment go?” 

Unwilling to spend any more time on talk, Draco changed the subject. “Hermione? How is she?” Hoping, perhaps against the odds, to hear something positive, he intently watched Anthony’s expression. 

Alas, the frown that appeared on Anthony's face didn’t imply anything optimistic. Anthony’s blue eyes clouded with concern, and he sighed. “Harry's already filled you in, I reckon. I can’t tell you anything encouraging. I’m at my wit's end here, to be honest. I've tried everything, and nothing has worked.” He patted Draco’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

A wave of dizziness rolled through Draco, and he had to close his eyes and clench his teeth until it passed. “May I see her?” 

Anthony nodded. “Of course. I just want to show you something first. It won’t take long.” He rummaged through the drawers of his desk. “Here,” he announced eventually and handed Draco a leather notebook. “I think it's Hermione’s diary, or something of the sort. It’s warded against strangers, of course, and even Harry couldn’t open it. So I was hoping that perhaps you would be able to succeed where he failed. It may give me a hint of what happened. Merlin knows I need a little help here.”

As far as Draco was concerned, Hermione hadn't been into diaries. Frowning, he turned the leather cover and felt the gentle warmth of Hermione’s magic welcoming him. The scent of jasmine reached his nostrils, and her painfully familiar handwriting appeared in neat rows before him. The sudden prickling in his eyes caught him by surprise, and he stifled a groan. Malfoys didn’t cry in public. It just wasn’t done.

“It let you in,” he heard Anthony whisper behind him. “Just as I thought.”

Draco hastily shut the notebook – he hated when people peeked over his shoulder – and, irritated, snapped, “Take me to her.”

Reluctantly dragging his gaze from the journal, Anthony muttered, “Yes, yes, follow me,” and led him through the labyrinth of depressing, sterile-smelling corridors. 

When they stopped in front of a blank white door, Anthony gave Draco's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, said, “I’ll check on you later,” and took off down the corridor, disappearing around the corner. Listening to his receding footsteps, Draco placed his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. The lump in his throat reappeared, this time accompanied by a thumping in his ears. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, took a breath, turned the doorknob, and walked in. 

The light in the room was dim, and after the clinical brightness of the corridor, he could barely make out the silhouette of his beloved witch. He crept closer, and there she was, on a narrow cot, with her chocolate curls all tangled and spread on the pillow, peacefully slumbering, unaware of the havoc she had wreaked around herself. She looked almost as he remembered her, only a bit paler and thinner.

Collapsing ungracefully on his knees, he found her hand, and clasping it in his, brought it to his lips, whispering, "Granger, Granger, look what you've done, you silly girl. You have to wake up, baby. Do you hear me? You can’t leave me hanging like this. I’m here now, and I need you so bloody much.” His eyes began to sting again, but this time he didn’t care. He didn’t keep secrets from Granger, and there was no need to pretend. With her, he could drop his stoic façade and feel … and cry. And so he did, peppering her skin with kisses mingled with tears, childishly cherishing the hope that maybe, just maybe, his kisses or his tears would wake her up. Alas, that particular fairy-tale trick didn’t work.

* * *

He didn’t know how many hours he spent kneeling at her bedside. His sense of time and reality abandoned him, but he didn’t mind. Somehow both notions lost their significance for him. All those months, only his thoughts and dreams about Hermione had kept him afloat. He wouldn’t have made it if it hadn't been for the knowledge that she was waiting for him. Now, caught unawares by the grim reality before him, he found himself at a loss. As always, at the moment of weakness, misery sneaked up on him, and unable to fight, he let it settle deep inside him. A trance of despair began to consume him, and he was almost ready to plummet into its gloomy waters, when someone shook his shoulder.

Snapping from his daze, he was met by Anthony’s worried eyes. “You’ll give yourself a crick in the neck,” Anthony said and pointed to a nearby chair. “Sit. I have enough patients as it is.” 

Draco rose from the floor, pushed the chair closer to the bed and sat down, once again taking Hermione’s hand in his. Feeling the Healer’s gaze, he turned to him and asked, “What’s the plan?” 

Anthony sighed. “I think, first of all, you need a good night sleep,” he said, peering into Draco’s eyes, which were probably red. “Because, frankly, you look half-dead.” 

“I’ll live.” Draco waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. 

“All right, in that case, I really think that you have to read Hermione's journal,” Anthony said with sudden enthusiasm. “I need to know what brought her to this.” He motioned towards the sleeping witch.

Anthony’s obsession with the journal grated on Draco’s nerves, and yet, if there was even a trace of hope, he wasn’t about to disregard it. “And what am I supposed to look for?” 

“Well, I think Hermione suffers from magical - ” Anthony began.

“Melancholy,” Draco finished. “Yes, I know. Potter told me. Doesn’t sound like something you can’t wake up from, to be honest.” 

“Correct. There is a bit more to it, though. This condition can be caused by an array of factors, such as grief and stress, and it usually manifests itself in weakened magical abilities as well as other symptoms: insomnia, mood swings, weight loss, lethargy, and so on. Sometimes, however, it can be triggered by lovesickness. I suspect that is what happened to Hermione.”

“Lovesickness,” Draco repeated quietly, slumping under a fresh weight of guilt. _How could he have been so reckless as to leave her alone? How? HOW?_ The questions pulsed in his temples. “I didn’t know,” he whispered to himself, hating the fact that he sounded just like Potter. 

Sensing Draco’s turmoil, Anthony patted his shoulder again. “Listen, I’ve read a lot about it these past few weeks. I believe that now you are here, we can beat this thing. I just need to understand why she doesn't want to wake up. To be honest, I hoped that your arrival would work, but, apparently, Hermione Granger is being stubborn.” 

Draco chuckled. “That’s one of the things Hermione Granger is brilliant at. Being stubborn.”

Anthony smiled. “I guess you ought to know everything about it.”

The smile didn’t stay on the Healer’s face for long. Turning to Hermione, he drew his wand and began chanting spells, which Draco recognised as diagnostic. As he watched Anthony checking organ after organ, Draco felt a surge of determination. Somehow, his words had given him the reassurance he needed. Bringing Hermione’s hand to his lips, he muttered, “Let’s see who is the stubborn one.”

Soon, Anthony had finished his examination. “Read the diary, Draco, and we’ll dance from there,” he said, and went to the door. “Call me if you need me,” he added before leaving the room.

The moment the door closed, Draco fished the notebook from his pocket. For a few long moments, he just looked at it, caressing the leather cover with his fingertips. A thought came to him, and he stood up and drew his wand. After a few softly-spoken spells, the cot was converted into a wider bed. Climbing into the bed, he lay down alongside Hermione and carefully shifted her until her head lay on his chest. “That’s better,” he muttered, marvelling at her closeness. Then he opened the notebook. The scent of jasmine once again filled his nostrils, and Hermione’s neat handwriting appeared on the first page. Whispering, “Hello, baby. I’m here,” he began to read.

* * *

_**September 28** _

_God, I feel so childish writing here. I haven’t had a diary since … actually, I think I’ve never had a diary. It’s just … Ugh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid, but I don’t want to burden Harry or Ginny with my problems. Besides, it’s too personal, and I don’t feel comfortable talking about it with either of them. So when I saw this notebook in Flourish & Blotts, it seemed like a good idea to start a diary, and its leather cover smelled so good. Somehow, the scent reminded me of the gloves you use for flying. Merlin, what I wouldn't give to feel your hands in those gloves caressing me. Gah, now I have a fetish for leather gloves. It’s all your fault, you know. You’ve ruined me … and I love you for it._

_Anyway, here we go._

_I miss you. It’s been three months since you left. Summer is gone, and the rain is killing me. Strange. I always loved rain. The truth is that autumn brings melancholy, and I’m not sure how to handle it, and those gloomy, rainy days are not helping. Perhaps I’ll try to work more. It’s always helped until now. I’ll ask Kingsley for another project tomorrow. He’ll be glad to oblige._

_Love you, baby._

_**October 12** _

_I love you, Draco. So much. There are moments when I can’t find words to describe my love for you, and how terribly I miss you. At times, it seems that every inch of my body is thirsty for you. **I am** thirsty for you. My love and my desire for you are fused into a scorching-hot ball inside me, and it burns. It burns! _

_Am I weak? Whiny? I think I am._

_I touch myself to dull the longing. Alas, it’s not the same, not the same at all. (Goodness, I can’t believe I just wrote that. I ought to ward this diary.)_

_**October 22** _

_Gave myself a good, long onceover this morning. Big mistake. I look awful. My hair is even more atrocious in this damp weather. It's really done a number on my stupid curls._

_Hmm, I wonder … whatever did you find in me? You once said that I had a spark inside me. Do I still have it? I certainly don’t see it now.  
 **November 1**_

_Something is not right, and I hate it._

_**November 10** _

_I hate evenings. Hate their gloominess. Days I can endure, but evenings and nights are the worst, and I loathe them with passion. Books haven't enticed me lately. Who would’ve thought that it could happen with me? And yet, here I am. I just can’t focus when everything reminds me of you._

_It’s been five months. It seems like centuries to me. I thought that, with time, I’d get used to being without you. No such luck. I need to see you, to feel you, to touch you, to breathe in your scent. My body betrays me with its demands. I need to feel you inside me. Lately, I've felt like one huge, walking, breathing NEED. It’s appalling, and I don’t like being so needy, but this is stronger than me. I’m not in a good place, Draco. It doesn’t feel like my usual self._

_This. Is. Not. Me._

_**November 29** _

_Somehow, my everyday work in the Ministry has turned into a tedious task. I used to get so excited about new projects. Not any more. The routine has sucked all the joy from my job, and my reality consists of a string of grey, undistinguished days that turn into weeks … months. I know I need to fight this. But how?_

_I need sun. I need oxygen. I need **you**. Instead, I have rain. Freezing cold rain, and it’s killing me. I think I will never love rain again. Never._

_I miss the taste of your skin._

_**December 14** _

_Winter is here, and it has frozen everything in sight, including me. That ball of desire and love inside me is gone. Now, I’m just an icy shell. Frozen. Bereft. Alone._

_**December 23** _

_Christmas without you is miserable. **I am** miserable. _

_Poor Harry, he wants his old Hermione back and tries so hard to fix me. Alas, he can’t. I need you. Only you know how to fix me._

_God, I miss your lips so much. I miss all of you._

_**January 15** _

_Why did you have to leave? Why?_

_Ugh, I’m such a drama queen. Who would have thought that Hermione Granger was a melodramatic cow who can’t control her emotions? In my mind, I understand everything. I know you are doing a great service to our world. And yet, and yet, sometimes, I catch myself thinking, ‘Why?’ I can’t even bear being around Harry any more because **he is here, and you are not** , and I despise him for that. How very egoistical of me. _

_Loneliness is a terrible, cruel thing. It’s already eaten my heart, and now it’s messing with my head._

_**January 27** _

_The void. Cold, black nothingness has settled inside me. Lethargy is my best friend nowadays. I breathe. I eat. I do my work. I smile to Harry. But I feel empty. My world stands still. Has my heart stopped beating, and do I somehow keep living without it? It certainly feels that way. Is there a point in breathing when your heart is dead?_

_**February 26** _

_I haven’t heard your voice since June. I haven’t felt your skin against mine for nine months. I haven’t had an orgasm in ages. Touching myself doesn’t work, no matter how hard I try. I’m sexually frustrated and lonely. Sometimes, it seems that not only my heart but also all my insides have shrivelled like an autumn leaf._

_I wish I could dream about you. Come to me. Take me. Let me pleasure you; drink you. I need to feel your hot come going down my throat, nourishing me. I’m parched for you. Please, please, come back to me, Draco, I beg you. I have no pride left, no shame, just an overwhelming need to have you near me._

_**March 11** _

_I think something in the universe heard my plea, because I dreamt about you last night. It was so very vivid and sensual … and real. I felt you. I even could smell you. A pity that it was so short. I woke up too early. I didn’t get my fill of you. Yes, yes, I’m greedy, so very greedy. I know. But the burning ball of desire is back, and it demands more. Much, much more._

_**March 30** _

_You came to me again last night, and it was glorious. In the morning, somewhere between slumber and awakening, it felt so … tangible. Your scent, your touch, your breath – all of it seemed so real. Alas, I opened my eyes to an empty bed._

_Alone._

_The reality is brutal._

_I felt disoriented all day. For the first time ever, I didn’t turn in my report on time. Kingsley looked disappointed, and, you know, the strangest thing happened. I didn’t feel bad about it. I couldn’t bring myself to care, to be honest. All I wanted was to get home and dream about you. Reality doesn’t attract me all that much any more._

_**April 5** _

_My nights are so much better than my days. Hmm, I wonder … what if I can make my dreams last longer? Let’s say two days. That way, I’ll be able to spend a weekend making love to you in my dreams, instead of slowly dying in my empty flat. I must investigate that._

_Am I delusional? Perhaps I am. I don’t care._

_**April 15**_

_I called in sick today. Again. There are plenty of reasonably competent people at the Ministry. They can certainly manage a few days without me._

_I have my new ‘sleep brew’ ready. I bought it yesterday from Severus Snape’s new apothecary. He squinted at me with suspicion, probably because it’s the third formula I’ve bought in ten days. Whatever. It’s not my fault that the others didn’t work._

_I want to see you more often. What’s so wrong with that? I just can’t stand my empty days any longer. In my dreams everything is so vibrant, so alive. Even if you are not there, I can just wait for you, right? Right?_

_**May 6** _

_I brewed my own formula. You know what they say: if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Well, I’ve done it. I have a formula that will keep me asleep but won’t interfere with my dreams. I took two weeks off work. I don’t think they will miss me there since I've been virtually useless lately._

_… I took the potion. I have about five minutes – just enough time to get into bed._

_Already in bed, anticipating … Merlin, I think it’s working._

_Come to me, Draco. I’ll be waiting for you there, in my dream._

* * *

For a while, Draco just stared at the last entry of the journal, his vision blurred, his throat dry, and his blood thumping wildly in his temples. His mind, burdened with guilt, struggling to gauge the damage his absence had caused. _I should have known_ , he thought. _I should have felt her distress. I should have come back earlier._ The realisation that, in fact, he was just like Potter – a complete fuckwit, a callous bastard who was too preoccupied with being a saviour, a hero – hit him with the power of the Hogwarts Express.

Shutting the diary with a snap, he rolled from the bed and began to pace, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Then, as if coming to a solution, he stopped in front of Hermione and, sweeping the matted hair from her face, kissed her forehead. “Come on, baby," he whispered. "I'm taking you home.” He lifted her up and, pressing her slight body to his chest, Apparated from the hospital.

Moments later, he appeared in their bedroom. Removing the covers with a wave of his hand, he gently placed Hermione on their bed, and after kissing her forehead one more time and saying, “Wait for me here,” rushed from the room. He knew exactly where to look for the potion she had brewed three weeks ago. Hermione Granger was all about order, and, sure enough, he found a little vial containing a viscous violet liquid in the cabinet near her brewing station. _Sweet Dreams, brewed on May 6, eight weeks shelf life_ , was neatly written on the label. Shaking his head, he chuckled, “Ever so organised,” picked up the bottle, and hurried back to Hermione. 

In the bedroom, he took off his clothes, climbed into the bed and downed half of the vial’s contents. The liquid tasted sweet and reminded him of the lavender tea his mother had adored. He put the vial down on a bedside cabinet, turned to Hermione, and, hugging her, whispered into her tangled mane, “I’m coming to you, babe.” His eyelids began to droop, and soon he was fast asleep.

* * *

The room was filled with a soft amber glow. The large bed, draped in a flowing chiffon veil, stood in the middle of the room. Behind the translucent curtain, he could see a familiar silhouette luring him in. “Hermione,” he called, and his voice sounded odd, as it always did in dreams. He ran towards the bed, and the way the marble floor made his footsteps bounce from the stained glass windows and resonate loudly surprised him. _It’s positively not our bedroom_ , he thought, before raising the veil and entering. 

Hermione, clad in something silky and transparent, was sitting on the bed with her back to him. The mellow afternoon sun tinted her wild curls with a dozen hues. 

“Hermione,” he called again.

She moved slowly, as if underwater, and facing him, said, “Draco, you are here. What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for you for an eternity.” 

Her voice seemed different, more melodious than he remembered. _Perhaps it’s the perks of being in a dream,_ he thought. “I know, baby. I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. I’m here now, and I won’t go anywhere without you, I promise,” he said as his eyes hungrily roamed over her nude form covered with only a whispery, barely-there peignoir.

Smiling, she beckoned to him. “It doesn’t matter. You are here, at last. Come,” she said in a singsong manner, “make love to me, Draco. I’ve been waiting too long.”

In the back of his mind, he understood that if he succumbed to her demand, he would never return from the dream. But she was a siren, a flawless vision of his beloved witch. Her rounded breasts with their dusty pink nipples tempted him, and the shadowy valley between her thighs enticed him. Who was he to resist that perfect creature? He certainly wasn’t strong enough – too thirsty, too lonely, too desperate. He knew … intimately knew every inch of that body, and he longed to reclaim it as his own. 

Without any further hesitation, he lunged at her, covering her soft form with his hard, muscular frame. As soon as their lips met, and she uttered a long, satisfied moan, everything else faded into oblivion for him. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed, only her skin, her scent, her willing flesh and her smouldering-hot core. She was in his arms, and that was the epitome of true happiness for him. Listening to her soft keening and pleas for more, he echoed her with his raspy groans. And when, he finally thrust into her and felt her body quivering around him, he rasped, “Hermione.” 

She echoed him with breathy, “Draco.” 

They were one again, and he finally felt at home. This was a reality he could live with. This was his kind of reality.

**_Epilogue_ **

Someone was shaking him, and that was annoying. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He felt comfortable as he was, with a warm, pliant body next to him, and soft, jasmine-scented curls covering his face. _Mmm, Hermione_ , he thought, and drew her closer.

“Draco, Draco, wake up! There are people in our bedroom,” Hermione whispered in his ear.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Go back to sleep. It's Sunday, for Merlin’s sake,” he muttered, determined to keep his eyes closed. 

“That’s where you're wrong, Mr Malfoy. It’s actually Tuesday and well into the afternoon.” The voice was all too familiar from his childhood. Draco’s eyes flew open, and he sat up, blinking at the tall, dark figure that hovered over him. 

“I hope you two understand how foolish your actions have been,” said his former professor, scowling. “I expected more common sense from you. Obviously, I grossly overestimated your intelligence. And, Miss Granger, please stop hiding under the cover. It’s truly unbecoming for a grown-up witch.” At that, Hermione let out a displeased huff but still chose to stay hidden from the disapproving eyes of the Potions master. Severus shook his head and sighed in exasperation. “Mark my word, the next time you two have an insuperable desire to brew and drink something idiotic, I won’t make an antidote. I’ll just leave you there for eternity. Now, since both of you are awake, please excuse me. I have an apothecary business to run.” With a dramatic swirl of his robes, the wizard disappeared with an angry pop, revealing a smug Anthony and a concerned Potter in the doorway.

“I told you there were people in our bedroom,” Hermione whispered again from under the blanket.

“Indeed,” Draco agreed, and followed her under the covers. Since he had no desire to discuss anything at the moment, he sincerely hoped that Goldstein and Potter would heed his message and leave them alone. 

Thankfully, they did.

**_The end._ **

*Love Kills/Freddie Mercury 


End file.
